Sweet Child Of Mine
by power ballad contest
Summary: I, Leah Clear water, thought I'd be a superhero-statistician my whole  life, kicking-ass via Microsoft Excel. Instead, I'm in bed with Dr.  Carlisle Cullen, crying. AH AU


The 80's Power Ballad Contest: Twilight Edition

Name of song and artist chosen: Sweet Child of Mine  
>Guns n' Roses<p>

Title: Sweet Child of Mine

Word Count: 14, 666

Rating: R

Pairing: Leah/Carlisle

Summary:  
>I, Leah Clear water, thought I'd be a superhero-statistician my whole<br>life, kicking-ass via Microsoft Excel. Instead, I'm in bed with Dr.  
>Carlisle Cullen, crying. AH AU<p>

Disclaimer:  
>I own nothing.<p>

Sweet Child of Mine

Let me just state that as a rule, I, Leah Clearwater, hate art galleries. I also hate eighties power ballads, English accents, stinky cheeses, liars, people who prefer cricket over baseball, racists, doctors, ice cream that's not on a stick, bad sex, and Sam, my ex.

Sam is one of those nice guys, you know, a romantic. When we first met he was all flowers, chocolates and clichéd shit like that. He never told me he loved me directly, but he said it every other way. On our two-year anniversary he even got it in skywriting that "I was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen." Which, I figured, cost more than just having the pilot write I love you.

Then he met Emily.

He broke up with me the next day. The next, fucking, day. That day was shitty for another reason. I'm not going to tell you about that though because I don't want this story to become Chicken Soup for the Indian Soul or some other pseudo-Christian bullshit.

Anyway, I was going to tell him about the Topic-Which-Cannot-Be-Named, but he was all, "No, let me go first."

And I was all, "I hope by go first you mean go _down _on me first, because my day has _sucked."_

"Leeeah."

"If you have to talk, then fine."

Then you know what he told me? He told me he _loved_ her_, _Emily. He saw her and he just fell in love, like his life was some kind of movie. They just met on the subway for a second, and 'poof!' love. I think he was confusing love with sudden-onset insanity or herpes (poof! Herpes!), and told him so.

"But her eyes, Leah, they spoke to me," he whispered, intensely.

I said that was medically odd and she should probably look into the fact that her eyes were saying things, but Sam just continued on with his version of Sameo and Emilyette. I hoped they both drank poison and died.

I asked him if they fucked on the train or if they waited to get back to a private place first. Sam confirmed that they did go back to his apartment, but they only talked about their feelings.

So I stalked him, have been at it now for about four days now. Pretty standard actually, I did the same thing when Jacob, one of my old boy toys, broke up with me. He said I had broken his friend's noses one too many times. It wasn't my fault that they kept insinuating that because I was a girl my right hook was sub-par.

It was only by stalking him that I found out the real reason he dumped me. The truth was Jacob didn't really mind my tendency to beat up his friends, particularly that annoying asshole, Edward. In fact, that was Jacob's favorite part of our relationship. In fucking fact, it turned out that all Jacob and Edward really wanted to do was beat each other up till kingdom come and then have steamy sex.

I asked if maybe I could join in, but Edward, a sparkly fairy of a kid, said women smelled like "dogs" to him. Whatever.

So I had every reason to follow Sam's wanderings; who knew if Emily was a transvestite, maybe she was even a furry. There were actually a startling amount of furries that came from the Rez for some reason. My brother, Seth, was one of them; he liked to pretend to be a werewolf. They had an online forum called "the Quileute Pack" and everything.

Anyway, that was how I found myself at an art gallery, trying my best not to overhear the conversation next to me that may or may not have been between two Englishman about the merits of gelato bought at cricket games. Things looked up for a second when a tuxedo-clad waiter waddled his wooly mammoth sized ass my way with a tray of what looked to be food but turned out to be stinky cheese. I quickly moved seats so I wouldn't have to interface with Amazing Moving Cheese and Lard Man.

I had long since lost Emily and Sam, the evening's original targets, as they meandered through the exhibit. It wasn't really art at all, just a bunch of flashing lights, which made it hard to keep on the trail of my quarry. In the end, I had to settle for sitting on a bench and playing_ I spy the slut who stole my boyfriend._

I was just about to give up and head home, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Fuck, I was supposed to just observe them from a distance, not create WWIII. I couldn't afford another restraining order.

"Excuse me, do you know where the cheese tray got off to? I just saw the man, but he then he disa—" He paused, looking like someone had punched him in the face, and what a face it was.

_Fuck me._ I didn't usually like blondes, but damn. In front of me was the most perfect specimen of the male species I had ever seen. Grant you, specimen sounds clinical and shit, but he looked like something that should have been put in a case. He was like a male Snow White, except for the hair.

This was a fresh start. I could, for once in my life, come across as not completely psycho. Except he looked sort of familiar. Was he a model or famous actor? Oh yes, I still had both of those unchecked on my "to do" list.

"Hey, I'm Leah," I said, in what I hoped was a pleasant and non-Norman Bates fashion. Unfortunately, I wasn't sure if licking my lips and showing a half-smile that was more bared teeth than friendly presentation of pearly-whites, was normal.

"I know who you are," he said, neither coldly nor warmly, still in shock.

_Whatever. Going to ignore oddness from his end._ _Creepy serial killer words do not a creepy serial killer make. _

"Well, I'm sorry to say, I don't know you."

I scooted to the edge of the bench, closer to him. It was an unconscious movement, well sort of unconscious— all right, all right I was aware of exactly what I was doing. "But as I said, I'm Leah, Leah Clearwater." All I needed was a wind machine to blow my hair back, and my wonderful entrance would have been complete.

He took a tiny-step backward, as if we were fencing. Quickly, I checked his finger. No ring, but I saw a definite tan line

He was still silent. Damn, what would it take to get hot blondie to talk? "You are?"

He gave a half smile to rival mine, his face changing from deer running from hunter, to suave hunter slinking sexually after totally fucked deer. "I'm Carlisle."

"And what brings you here tonight, Carlisle?" I dragged my tongue over the syllables of his name, hoping he'd imagine where else I could drag it. A quick glance at the bulge in his pants confirmed my victory.

He turned out toward the crowd. "I was looking for you, but I didn't intend to actually _meet_ you."

"Are you admitting to stalking me?" Now I was the one who looked like I had been punched in the face. Didn't he know the first rule of stalking: never confess?

"That's a rather crude way of putting it. I prefer keeping an eye out, or maybe playing guardian angel." He gave a little shrug. It wasn't a creepy shrug, but it reminded me of something, something I wished I could forget. I knew that shrug; I knew him.

"Do I know you from somewhere?" I said, more than asked. It was just a matter of confirming my suspicions now.

"I'm slightly offended you don't remember me."

Slightly offended? What was he, some kind of British wannabe? Hot body, sure, but his voice was as appealing as a plate of stinky cheese.

He continued. "I set your broken arm a couple of weeks ago."

I kept my face perfectly blank. I refused to think of that day. Refused.

"Then we were going to take more MRIs because of the chest pain. You never did tell me what that was from, the arm, I mean."

I shrugged, hoping that if I didn't answer he'd drop it.

"Because the fire alarm went off in the middle of your appointment and then?" he prompted.

"Conversation's heartbeat flat-lined, get the paddles," I would have said, if it wouldn't have meant involving myself in said conversation.

He answered his own question. "When you returned you had a new doctor."

_Are social cues a foreign language for you Doc? Because your reading comprehension in them sucks. Maybe he was ignoring my discomfort on purpose. Bastard. _

I would have walked away, but he was so damn hot. He was a good deal taller than me, and I'm no member of the Lollypop Guild at five-foot-eight. But it was more than his height, usually I dated large, square guys, but he was sleek; he looked like he had been designed by NASA. His blonde hair, dappled with only a few grays, was slicked back to reveal a face with high cheekbones. Then those eyes; there was sharpness in them, power. He looked less like a doctor, standing there, surveying the throngs of people, and more like a king.

"Are you gay?" I blurted out. I loved Jacob to death, but I was not getting involved with another gay guy.

"Certainly not." A smile just barely played with the edge of his lips.

My cunt was raring to go at the sight of that little smile. If I knew how to promise wicked things with my body, this man could do it with a simple twist of the lips. _Yes, I'd like some Carlisle with my Mojito, please and thank you.  
><em>

"Why do you ask?" The smirk was still there.

My heartbeat skipped like an old record. I took another sip of said Mojito, before putting it down beside me. "Frankly, that would be rather unfortunate." I imitated his clipped, sophisticated way of talking, not entirely kindly. I played rough and for keeps.

He leaned in closer. "Why is that, my dear?" As his grin widened I caught a glimpse of his tongue.

"Because," I lowered my voice to a whisper, "I plan on fucking you senseless."

He pursed his lips, thinking. "I see."

"Not the answer I was looking for. How about my place or yours, or even boy's bathroom or girl's bathroom?" So much for the whole not seeming like a psycho thing.

"Leah!" A warm voice that belonged to none other than the hairy-chest of Sam rang out behind me.

_Oh, right. Way to go Leah, you almost forgot operation find slutbag and poor, hopeless boy under her spell. Although, it's probably better for Sam that things are over. Do you really want him to have to deal with The Topic Which Cannot Be Named?  
><em>  
>I turned around. "Oooh, hey, Sam, what are you doing here?" I cooed. I fucking could have been an actress, if I wasn't such a good statistician.<p>

That's right. You expected something badass didn't you, like biker, or mechanic, or professional shark wrangler. Not that I haven't tried my hand at all of those things, and for that matter kicked ass.

I became a statistician because, A. I have always rocked at math, and B. math needs more badass chicks. When I'm not running marathons or doing push-ups with one arm, I like to kick the ass of stereotypes. What can I say? I'm practically a superhero with Microsoft Excel.

Next to Sam was Emily dressed, well, in a dress. For me, fashion meant a good pair of jeans that didn't have a rip near the ass or crotch area and a T-shirt with some catchy slogan. For her, it meant so much jewelry she looked like something that had been dragged in by a seagull. I always knew Sam was a magpie at heart, the fucker.

"Hey, you must be the new girlfriend? I said, keeping my smile one hundred percent intact. _Inner peace._ No, I was not a Buddhist Monk as well as superhero, where do you get these crazy ideas, idiot? I just saw Kung Fu Panda 2.

Anyway, what kind of monk wears a shirt that says 'Fuck the Police' that jeans look like I had been through tangles with the long, hard dick of the law. I think they had more holes than fabric.

She mirrored my smile, but hers was earnest, without even any disdain for my clothes. I had to admit it was pretty in an "I'm sixteen mentally and have never been more than a hundred miles from the Rez" kind of way.

"Yep," she chirped, popping her 'p'. God, I hated when people did that. "I'm Emily."

"Has Sam told you about his diaper fetish yet? There is a supply of depends in the back cupboard that he usually forgets about, if you were worried you had run out." My genial smile turned practically shark-like. There was a lot I had learned from sharks about human relations. Namely, that you are entitled to eat, bite, and destroy those who annoy you. Smelling blood doesn't mean back off, it means attack.

I wasn't even lying, not about the second point. Sam didn't have a diaper fetish, but he did have a supply of adult Depends in his back cupboard for his little sister who was mentally disabled. She had trouble holding it in when she got excited.

I loved his little sister, and I still do. Kim is just the sweetest thing on the entire planet, and I had a feeling that Emily wouldn't be able to handle her. Now Sam would have to tell Emily or admit he had a diaper fetish, either one was certain to put a dent in their shiny, new relationship.

Sam didn't even look surprised at the comment; he just tightened his grip around Emily who snuggled into his embrace, as if talking to me was the equivalent of the classic horror movie date.

I heard a startled cough from Carlisle behind me. Whoopsafuck, I hoped that little diaper bit wouldn't stop me from getting laid tonight. It was fifty-fifty with most guys on the crazy thing, some when they found out got super-boners and pounded it into me the whole night long, some ran away.

Although to be fair, I usually wasn't this crazy. There were extenuating circumstances: Topic-Which-Shall-Not-Be-Named, Poorboy and Magpieslut.

I turned around and gestured to Carlisle. "This is _Doctor _Carlisle; he's my boyfriend."

I expected for him to blush, deny it or leave, but he only put his arm around me. To my fuck-me-surprise, he pressed a kiss to my neck. Then his tongue peeked out and started playing hopscotch over my veins and I moaned.

Sam looked upset, but only for about a second. "You never go to art galleries," he said, suspiciously. "You hate them."

If possible, I smiled wider. "You never give good head. You hate it." I motioned aside to Emily. "Sorry about that, honey, he's just not a giving kinda guy."

Emily, who had been sipping delicately from her own Mojito, choked. Sam's blush deepened.

"Well," I said casually, confident that I had done enough damage. "I'd best be going now, me and the Doc, have places to go, ya know." I gave Emily a wink and brought my tongue out from between my lips. She flinched. _Fuck yes. _

I pulled Carlisle close to me; wrapping my arm in his like I was tying together a twisty-tie. We turned away, walking through the crowds of people ooh-ing and aah-ing at how the lights were able to shift colors against the white backdrop of the gallery. Had we jumped back in time to the 1895 World's Fair, what next would people be impressed by? Toasters and indoor pluming? Come one and all to the great color filter show, while you're here be sure to examine our miracle tonic, your penis will grow to a pole the size of redwood tree!

I moved my lips closer to his ear. "Sorry about that. If you want to leave, I totally understand. Thanks for playing along." It was kind of unfortunate that I had to ruin what could have otherwise been a great lay, and by kind of, I mean it fucking blew harder than a drunken chick at a frat party. But life had sucked lately, what else was new?

We emerged from the kitsch gallery and into in the heart of Seattle. The air was wet and in the distance I could hear ambulances. Skyscrapers towered like giant stalks of silver wheat above us. Beautiful; fucking glorious. I loved the city.

For a long while the sirens and city chatter were the only sounds, that and Carlisle's breathing. The air wasn't cool yet, but his presence was warm.

It _was_ going to get cold soon though, and he was going to leave. Better he leave now, before I would have reason to miss him. I prodded him with my finger, "Well?"

He looked at me like I had two heads, one of which was either a transvestite or an _alien_ transvestite aka Tyra Banks. "You are absolutely insane," he said.

Let's be honest, that stung a little. I knew I had acted pretty crazy, but there was no need for him to be rude. I mean, I had offered to fuck him; I had a smokin' bod, one that could have been his for the night.

I lowered my face, trying to hide the hurt that was no popping up on my face like gaggles of zits on a fat teenage girl. For all my bravado, I was kind of a softie.

But before I could protest further, his finger tipped up my chin. He was gentle. I hadn't been with a guy who did the whole "I'm gonna caress ya before I kiss ya," bit since Jake, and he turned out to be gay.

Sam was always more of a target and attack kind of guy. Sex for him was a game of Battleship; half the time was devoted to finding the holes to put the pegs in, and the other half was for prancing around screaming "I fucked your battleship!"

But he didn't kiss me, at least not on my lips; he pecked me on the cheek. Euro trash.

"And," he whispered, like he was trying to communicate directly to my skin, "I do want to have sex with you, many times, in many different positions." His eyes twinkled, as if he was imagining exactly what angle my legs would be open for position number fourhundred and fifty-six.

I was sensing a _but_ here, a big, big but, one so big it belonged on a rapper's girlfriend.

"But," _I fucking knew it_ "Not tonight."

"Why?" I sounded like a cartoon girl, so soft and fucking pathetic. I shook my head and looked to his bare ring finger for inspiration. "You gotta get back to your wife?" I spat.

Leah, quadrillion points, Carlisle, none. Not that I was keeping score.

His face fell. It was almost scary how quick. "My wife is dead."

_Motherfucker! _

"Uhh," I stalled. "I'm sorry."

His face eased, but only slightly. "First of all, it's not your fault, and second, I don't blame you for thinking I was still married." He held up his hand and wiggled his fingers, showcasing the tan line.

I went into math mode. _A tan line fades in about three weeks, which means that his wife would have either been dead for only three weeks, in which case he must not have loved her, or he still wears her ring_. Liar, liar with his pants fucking aflame.

"You're lying."

He smiled; fucking grinned. I felt the sudden desire to give him a good solid one right in the jaw. White guys bruise the best out of anyone; they cry like little bitches too.

He saw my burst of anger, and put a hand on my arm to steady me. It should have been condescending, but it wasn't. Search me. It was a fucking, weird night.

"Leah," he began warningly. "I know you don't like it when people pry into your personal business. I would advise you to not pry into mine." His jaw was clenched, but he looked more sad than angry.

"How do you know what the fuck I like?" How long had the Doc been following me?

"I'm very observant, it's a doctor thing," he said.

Curiouser and curiouser. I made a point not to smoke before going out on my hunting expedition, so I knew that I couldn't blame how surreal this shit was getting on anything besides him.

He sighed again. He was a fucking accordion with the amount of sighing he did. "I want you to call me. I'm going to give you my number, okay."

"I'm not an invalid!" I snapped. The balls of this guy to think _I_ would call _him_. Not even asking for my number first. The worst part was I knew I would call him anyway. Fuck.

"Big word." His eyebrows rose, and, once again, he smirked.

Smirking and sighing, it sounded like some kind of Disney movie. The Smirk and the Sigh. Except for instead of a comical farce involving toys that talked and served as slaves to their human masters, or incestuous lion Shakespeare parodies, it would be porn.

Porn was what I would be watching tonight, because I sure as hell wasn't getting any. "Yeah, unfortunately, it's the only big thing around here," I said, bitterly.

His smirk slipped a little. "Just take the number and call me." Now it was really gone, leaving only sincerity. "Please."

"Why would I ever call you? Do I look like a girl who associates with maybe married men? Wait, don't answer that." For all rights, I probably did look like that girl. But I wasn't, no matter how my life had changed— I knew that. And I figured any other person with half of a brain should have too.

I have a theory: when teenage boys come they actually aren't spurting out little gene-tadpoles, but instead all that extra brain they don't need any more when they become men.

This is why I'm not a Doctor, folks.

"I told you that my wife is dead." He frowned, that sad little frown doctors make when they tell you that "whoops, they missed a tumor—or six—and now you're going to die".

"Yeah, well," I muttered, "I said I was sorry. People die, but if you're still wearing her wedding ring than I would say she isn't completely dead. Which would mean you're dating a Zombie."

He still had that same little "I'm sorry for your loss" frown, even though it was his wife who was dead, and not mine. "I'm a complicated man, Leah."

That little frown didn't fucking go away. I knew that frown. I saw it two weeks ago, not on his face, but on the idiot doctor that replaced him. The doctor that told me I had cancer, third stage, absolutely fatal.

Yeah, that's right. I'm dying. I knew I said I wasn't going to talk about it, but screw that Topic-Not-To Be-Discussed monkey business. And you can fuck off with that "I'm sorry" shit too. You're sitting here reading this and thinking I'm just telling you my sob story so I can get on Oprah and get a new car before I skip my final time round this mortal coil, but let me make a break from my little narrative to help pound some things through your head.

First off, that new car shit is more trouble than it's worth, statistically you end up paying more in taxes on the fucker than you would if you bought yourself a super-cheap used car. Apparently, Oprah was too fat and stupid to do the math—rich people usually are.

Second, you are going to die. So every time you read about that sad little cancer chick and feel bad—– don't. 'Cause really when you're feeling pity you're also thinking, 'Thank god I'm not in that situation.' But you are. Don't you fucking get it? You are. So what if you die on a toilet seat, or in a war, or in a pit of pig shit after getting kicked by a rogue Babe sick and tired of the threat of being turned into bacon. You're going to die too.

I'm going to say it one more time, because I still don't think most of you get it. Hell, I wouldn't either. If some random-ass chick came up and told me I was going to die, I would just tell her to go fuck her crystal ball and stop snorting so much powdered eye of newt.

Once I knew a chick named Alice; she kept repeating freaky shit like that to me and anyone else who would listen. Thankfully, they got her the help she needed. Aw fuck, who am I kidding? She's probably a vegetable with all the meds they give you at those places. Well, better a vegetable than a total fruitcake.

We try not to think about the fact that our days are numbered, but when we do manage to get our sorry little brains around the concept it becomes some kind of haunted house or sentimental tragedy. Or even worse, we spend so much time thinking about it we come up with crazy-ass shit like God and Popemobiles, which, in my humble opinion, are basically the same thing: ways of moving through life trying to be protected and still a part of the world, but in actuality being neither.

See, the problem with God and the Popemobile is you get the worst of both worlds.

First off, you're stuck in a giant car that, let's be honest, basically looks like a phallic shaped history museum exhibit on wheels. The glass is so thick you can't touch anyone or actually do anything but wave and sort of say, "Hello people, I'm someone really important. Watch me wave in a vaguely retarded manner." Of course, if you actually did say that, they wouldn't be able to hear you because, again, the glass.

Which brings me to my second point: the glass. It's there so the Pope's hat doesn't get blown off and the world doesn't discover exactly how similar to Hannibal Lector he really does look. Oh and it's also there to protect against bombs and shit. The problem is, if there ever was a bomb, it'd be able to break the glass anyway, because it's _glass._

God's like that. If you believe in "him", you think you're separate from the plebian non-believers, think you're safe from danger and death, but you're not. A grenade will blow anybody up, even the Pope. And, unlike me, you'll look ridiculous when you die, driving along in the theological equivalent of a giant, transparent dick.

Fuck, I was getting all philosophical and depressing.

Carlisle noticed too and the little frown disappeared to be replaced by The Big Frown. Damn, I didn't know lips could bend that far down.

"Leah, is everything all right?"

"Just thinking about how my ex-boyfriend broke up with me they day I found out about my incurable cancer. Just the usual, ya know," I said, no lie.

Most girls would write that shit down in the diary, being all like, "Oh, I wish I had said it, but it would have been so rude. What if I broke a nail?" But I was not most girls. And if Dr. C couldn't figure that out and stop trying to lie to me about his wife, he was going to find out that not only was I crazy in the head, I was crazy in the sack—as in when I sacked him in the nuts.

"You going to try and get on Oprah with that story?" He was deadpan again, so I didn't know if he was screwing with me or not.

I couldn't help the guffaw that spewed out of me like vomit. _Fuck me. He actually has a funny bone in one of those skeletons he keeps in his closet. _"Nah," I said, after I finally recovered, "just into your pants."

"You don't have to try so hard. Just call the phone-number when you get home." His teeth gritted together so loud I could hear 'em. They sounded like tectonic plates.

"Why can't we go home now, to my place?" I seriously did not get this guy. I knew my statistics; the percentage of guys that flirted with me that were willing to fuck me the same night was pretty fucking high, around ninety-nine percent . In fact, Carlisle was the first guy who had ever flirted with me but then resisted my advances at the end of the night. Leave it to me to have found the hottest outlier on earth.

"Either, you're interested in me—or you really want to have me call the rejection hotline for shits and giggles— and I'm interested in you. Life is short. Carpe stipendium and all that jazz." I crossed my arms, hoping the fucking up of the Latin would piss him off; Doctors were particular about shit like that. What, think I messed it up on purpose? Futue et impsum caballum.

I crossed my arms so tight it looked like I was in a straight jacket, stations manned. He would not be sinking any of my battleships tonight. "The only explanation that makes any sense is that she's alive or you're still not over her."

His hands reached out for me, but I pushed him away. He was lucky I didn't break out the Jiu Jitsu.

"You would really like to know?" His eyes fucking shone in the night, like little blue streetlamps on a pitch dark road. He was angry now, quietly, but powerfully all the same. I didn't think he was strong because he didn't have muscles like Jake, or a big jaw like Sam, but I was deluded. That gaze was brutal.

"I was trying to avoid this for your sake, Leah, not mine."

"I want to know," I said, surprising myself with how sincere I sounded. Damn it. What next, community service and wearing live-strong bracelets?

"My wife died three years ago, and I miss her terribly, but I am not in love with her." The only part of him that moved was his lips.

"She would want me to move on and I have." He didn't blink or move or back down. This was a guy who even when talking about death looked in control. Maybe he learned that in doctor-school too. "My son died three _weeks _ago in a car accident; I wore the ring to feel close to someone, anyone."

I didn't know what to say, so I looked down and kicked at the wet leaves at my feet.

"You know," I said finally, "you could get on Oprah with that story."

And then he did kiss me. I didn't believe in passion or Hollywood swooning. I liked sex and I liked it fast. I was that way even before I learned about the whole dying thing, but the Doc took his time with the kiss, which was a little awkward.

To make matters worse, about halfway through he surfaced from it and looked at me. He didn't squeeze my ass or push my head towards his dick; just looked at me. I couldn't take it. What was he seeing?

"Come home with me," he said.

After all that, now I wasn't sure I wanted to. I actually felt like I liked the guy. I hadn't expected that, I had mostly come to make sure the Slut and Sam's life were miserable before I departed the planet. I knew I could have probably told Sam about the c-word and caused him worlds of pain, but that would have been a cop-out. Anyway, I didn't want him feeling bad _for_ me; I wanted him to feel as bad _as _me.

Bu I hadn't even thought of Sam once since coming outside. Yet here I was with a forty plus guy who had just lost his wife and son. That did not sound like a recipe for a sexy one-night stand.

What the fuck was I supposed to say in the bedroom anyway? Please, fuck me harder. Oh you're crying. Whoops, forgot to turn down the picture of your dead wife and son? Try not to go limp while I do it will you?

"Yes," I said.

I _was_ crazy.

—

He hailed us a cab, which I didn't even know you could do anymore, and gave the directions to the middle-eastern cabbie. In the backseat we didn't say much, just looked out our separate windows and listened to the radio, which was playing mostly nineties alternative rock.

Once his hand snuck over to mine, I took it, feeling like I should have had a lunch pail and been watching Sailor Moon. Who the hell held hands anymore?

I looked up at him and saw not a handsome ex-Dad I'd like to fuck, but an actual man. It was odd. I tried to pull my hand away, but he wouldn't let me. After a moment I saw why, tears were leaking out the sides of his eyes.

He couldn't have picked a worse girl to comfort him. Thankfully, I didn't have to say any sappy shit, because he spoke first. "I was infatuated with you the first moment I saw you." He paused, mulling something over, and then said with a little ironic smile. "I had a _crush."_

It was really twilight zone to hear a man as sophisticated as he was use the word crush. I brushed the top of his hand with my thumb.

"And then I heard one of the doctors discussing your case, so I investigated further—"

"You didn't have to do that," I said, uncomfortably.

God, when had this turned into General Hospital? One second I was fine, and the next we were talking in subdued whispers about medical investigations. I had faced down differential calculus and linear math monsters of Godzilla scale epicness; this, however, I was not equipped to handle.

"I didn't want to meet with you tonight," he said. "I was going to wait to properly introduce myself, until I was more stable. I wanted to really be able to take care of you."

"What makes you think you're the right man for the job?" I asked. I didn't get this tenderness of his. If I hadn't seen his eyes, I would have thought he was being insincere.

He looked at me like I was slightly mentally disabled for not knowing the answer. "I'm a doctor." He paused, the wall of confidence cracking just a little. "And you remind me of my wife."

"Was she a crazy bitch like me?" Fuck. I was just laying it all out. I guess honesty was contagious. You'd think as a Doctor he'd keep better control of his infectious diseases.

"No." The man with the fiery eyes was back, and if I kept up those kinds of comments I had a feeling I was going to get third degree burns.

_Mental note: don't diss dead wife. Fuck, that's obvious._ _I must be purposefully trying to fuck things up if I have to make a mental note of _**that **_to myself._

Finally, he let go of my hand, but instead of leaving me alone, he stroked my arm lightly. "She was strong like you, but, also like you, she never seemed to quite know it."

"I know it!" I answered hastily.

I thought he might laugh, but he just gave me a Socratic glance. "Do you?"

Before I felt obligated to fill the impending awkward silence, the radio switched to the bane of my existence: eightiess power ballads. I groaned, recognizing the song.

_She's got a smile it seems to me  
>Reminds me of childhood memories.<br>Where everything  
>Was as fresh as the bright blue sky<em>

I was about to ask the cabbie to change the song, but then I saw the look on Carlisle's face, he was happier …. sort of.

_Now and then when I see her face  
>She takes me away to that special place<br>And if I'd stare too long  
>I'd probably break down and cry<em>

"Come on, this song is so damn…" I said, realizing halfway through that I was crying. I never cried. I screamed, I yelled, but I didn't cry. To his credit, Carlisle didn't try to comfort me anymore than he already was; he just kept stroking my arm.

I was grateful that he didn't freak. Fuck knows what Jacob or Sam would have done if I had started crying—probably run away figuring that there was tear gas loose or something. And here this guy, this stalker really, was, well not at ease, but certainly not flying off the fucking handle.

"What was your son's name?" I was asking a deep question because I cared. It felt precocious, like I was a dolphin trying to write a novel with its nose or a monkey tap-dancing in a suit.

"Emmett," he said quietly, his gaze caught somewhere between the window and me. I was glad he wasn't looking at me; I didn't know if I would have been able to hold my own.

"Cervical spine injuries are the main cause of death in cordal injuries sustained from car accidents, but his spinal column snapped right at the neck. It was an inoperable injury, but even if it wasn't they wouldn't have let me operate. I was his father, but I also couldn't, physically. But—"

"Don't. You can't think about the whats and ifs. You just can't. It's not your fault." Platitudes. That was all I could give this man. But I really meant them.

He wasn't making a big shit-storm out of being upset, but I could see that he was. Not worried or agitated, just really fucking sad.

_Sweet child o' mine  
>Sweet love of mine <em>

I was a connoisseur of really, fucking sad. I ate it for breakfast with a side dish of humor and avoidance issues. Maybe that was what he found charming about me.

He said nothing for a long time. "I want you to know; I didn't want this night to happen like this."

God, had I really fucked up that badly? I suppose calling his dead wife a crazy bitch might have been a game-ender. Leah, zero. Carlisle, ten thousand.

He looked up into my eyes, his all empty. "I have a limited understanding of you, based solely on observation." The steadiness with which he spoke belied the fact that he didn't think his understanding of me was limited at all. I bet he thought he could have written a book on me. _A Case study of the Psychopath of Leah Clearwater. _

"From that I've gleaned that you believe you don't 'go for' guys who cry or show weakness. At least, you think you don't. I planned to ease you into it more slowly."

I sighed, so damn relieved that he wasn't going to chuck me out of the taxi. "Ease me into what?"

He gave a ghost of a grin. "A real, intimate relationship," he paused at my blank expression, "with me, of course."

Cue jaw drop.

The taxi driver announced that we had arrived. It was truly dark now, so I couldn't really tell where we were. Carlisle had to lead me out of the cab towards his place, which was a surprisingly small condo. He must have sold his old house fast.

When we got in, he took my coat like a gentleman, and started, of all things, a fire. I half expected him to bring up "night caps" and start singing White Christmas, but there was only a bottle of Gin, no mini-sandwiches or fur coats. It was only October anyway.

I couldn't hold it in any longer. "Why would you want to be with me if you knew I was dying," I said the moment we had gotten settled. "Or, is it because I'm going to kick the bucket that you're interested. Perfect one-year stand." The revelation hit me like an ice cube thrown at a boob—ouch. Did that once in college; never again. Some things, like ice-cube fights topless, even a badass avoids.

I expected him to act all offended, as if I had just called him a racist or something, but he just sat next to me, his hand rubbing little circles on my back. It felt nice, despite the fact that he was most likely a good for nothing bastard who used dying girls for sex by telling them Ben and Jerry sob stories.

"No," was all he said before kissing me. "I'm trying my best not to seem as if I've been following you around for the better part the year." Kiss. "I think I'm doing a bad job." Kiss. Kiss. Whoa, who knew old guys could use their tongues like that?

"Have you?" I asked, breathless as one of those heroines in shitty romance novels. Next thing you know a boob was going to decide to revolt and pop out of my shirt. Hell, as long as we were in harlequin-land maybe Carlisle would tell me he was really a pirate. I put that thought in my fantasy scrapbook.

"Have I what, Leah?" The way he said my name, fuck. _Rip off my hospital night gown right now, Doctor. Right, fucking now. _

"Been following me for a—oh—year?" Bye-bye coherency.

He kept on kissing me, which was a pretty good tactic on his part. If I wasn't totally invulnerable in every way it might almost have—

Holy fuck, what were his fingers doing there? How were they—"Fuck me," I whispered, half as an explicative, half as a command.

"I confess; I saw you before that day in the office. You were riding on a motorcycle, without a helmet on, dangerous, but I'll forgive you risking your safety. Your hair streamed behind you, mmm. Unfortunately, you were with some he-man beast, but you got rid of him, didn't you, my dear." His finger circled my pussy. Some counterpoint, calling me his dear and doing things like that with his hands.

"Umm." Incoherent.

"I missed sex. I missed making women scream." He said it as if he missed having ice cream or taking his poodle for long walks in the park.

Normally, I would have been all for this, but thirty minutes ago this guy was practically in a fetal position. As I said before, I am the queen of emotional issues and I am well acquainted with my subjects, sublimation, repression and avoidance. Carlisle wasn't trying to have sex with me because he wanted to, but because he didn't want to think about his Topic Which Shall not be Discussed.

"You can make me scream," I said softly. "But, maybe not tonight." Shit, what was I doing, thinking of making this into a two-night stand? I wasn't ready for that.

"Don't make promises to me you can't keep, Leah. That's the first lesson we learn in doctor-school," he teased, but his eyes were still.

I found myself playing with the edge of his shirtsleeve; it was made of something silky smooth. "Okay," I whispered, "but I still don't think you're ready to fuck tonight." I brought his hand up to my lips and kissed it softly. Fuck, was cancer turning me into a decent person?

"Protecting my virtue?" He withdrew his hands, and my hips gave a little thrust forward as his fingers departed. Don't go, they whined.

"Take another shot of your medicine, Doctor." I gave a wink, shaking the bottle of gin. Then quieter, I said "And give me the case history."

"If you wish." He was back to the neutrality of our first meeting. It was his wall, I realized. I had my snarky attitude and he had his doctor façade.

He stood up and walked over to the kitchen sink, where he washed his hands methodically. Then he opened the fridge and pulled out something small, quadratic and green.

"Emmett wasn't a perfect son." He sat down next to me, and showed me what he had gotten from the fridge: little squares of limes.

He poured himself a slip of gin, not even bothering with the tonic. "His grades were terrible; all he cared about was football and his girlfriend, Rosalie." His hand tightened around the lime, the juice gushed out of it. Even when it seemed husky and dry, he still squeezed. He crushed it until his knuckles were white.

He watched the glass, the way the limejuice and the alcohol swirled together. Little islands of lime-flesh bobbed up and down in the gin, before sinking, drowned. "She was supposed to call me about the arrangements for the funeral."

He brought the glass up to his lips. I don't know if I expected him to sip at it politely, but it startled me when he downed half the glass in one gulp.

"If she doesn't call me the preparations will never be ready in time," he slurred quickly. He was back to being prey again—only I was tired of being the hunter. More dolphin than shark now.

I could deal with his anxiety, I could. It was the same as trying to comfort Kim, really. Despite being retarded— yeah I don't shy away from the word, I'm no PC pussy—she was one of my best friends. Maybe that says something about how fucked up I am.

I put a hand on his wrist. "It's okay, just talk to me."

"He spent most weekends getting obscenely drunk, before tottering home to try to lie to me about it." He took another mouthful, finishing the glass, giving a little shiver at the aftertaste.

"As for school, he understood his classes, but he didn't really care that he did. He never synthesized original ideas on his own." His eyes didn't meet mine as he reached out for another piece of lime. I thought for a second he was going to eat it, but he just brought it over my drink and began wringing the juice out of it again. _A surgeon has to keep his hands busy, I guess. _

"But he was good. There was an incident a party, I heard about this from the parents of the girl, Emmett would have died before telling me." That ironic smile twisted his lips again. I was beginning to learn all the flavors of his expressions. The statistician in me couldn't help but calculate their frequency. Ironic smile was making headway against saucy smirk and formal frown.

"A girl named Bella was almost raped by one of his friends." He finished squeezing over my glass and indicated to me to drink. I was afraid to refuse. I took as deep a swig as he had.

He tossed the lime-husk into the fire, where it let out an acidic hiss. "He pulverized the boy; beat him up until he had to go to the ER. I don't usually condone violence, but for that bastard…." He looked at the burning lime, it's green flesh mottled by hungry, blue flames.

"And now Emmett's dead."

"He is." I refused to say I was sorry for the death of someone I never met, even if I was.

I kissed him. I was just about to put my hands through his hair, when music started from somewhere.

It was that damn rock lick, the guitar vaulting easily between intervals, followed by the annoyingly hoarse voice of the lead singer.

Alright, Doc, it's time to call it. Any sexy feelings are dead. What next, would a mullet grow from his head like a mutant chia-pet?

Where was it coming from anyway? I looked at Carlisle. No fucking way. It was his ringtone.

_Woaaah oooh, sweet child of mine. _

_Woaaah oh oh oh, sweet love of mine. _

The Doc didn't move to pull at his cell phone, just stood there, face turning as white as his teeth.

"Well, gonna answer it?" I asked, staring at the phone, which via vibration had migrated from under the Doc's ass towards the fireplace. Were we just going to let that burn too?

He shook his head. "You answer it."

"Me?" Man, he really was messed up. I didn't even know him, not really, and I was already being forced to play secretary. What next, schoolgirl tights and calling him daddy? _Wait, that was kind of sexy. Another one for the scrapbook._

He didn't answer, just pushed the phone into my half unfurled hand. It wasn't an iPhone, but still sleek and expensive looking. It put my poor, outdated razor to shame.

"Er, greetings?" I asked, having no idea how Carlisle usually answered his phone. Probably not like ET. To be fair, I was feeling like I was stuck on an alien planet.

On the other end was Marilyn Monroe, or at least her long lost great-granddaughter. "Hello," began the painfully feminine voice, "is Mr. Cullen there?"

I looked at Carlisle, half expecting him to shake his head or hide. He did neither.

"No, I regret to inform you he's not present at the moment," I began in my best, sophisticated business voice.

"Yeah, well this is Rosalie, could I leave a message?" Her voice was mauled by cracks of anxiety and what sounded like crying.

"Sure," I said, without any kind of certainty at all.

"I just want to let Mr. Cullen know that I put Sweet Child of Mine on the funeral playlist."

"Okay." Would that song never fucking stop? The moment you thought you had left behind, it popped its little head out from behind a curtain and was all, "Hello there, I saw you were having a pleasant eighties free succession of moments, mind if I _ruin_ that for you?"

Minnie Mouse's voice interrupted my inner monologue. "Oh I also wanted to tell him that I found Emmett's phone. He had lost it the night before the crash. I mean, I thought he would know because I called with it and the ringtone…." Static overtook her voice.

"I'll let him know." I wasn't sure whether I would actually tell him or not. Would this little factoid make things worse or better? I didn't know much about having someone close to you die, I only knew about being the one dying. Us Natives live pretty long if we can manage to avoid the drink and the tobacco. As the one dying, little things didn't bother me much, the pain and the pills, what bothered me was the truth: in less than a year I was going to be dead.

"Oh, and tell him I'm," her voice hit a speed bump of a sob, "I'm really grateful for him being there for me."

"I will."

"Oh, okay," she said, brought back to the reality that she was crying over the phone to a strange woman, and added, defensively, "I just really miss Emmett."

Then, with the predictable lack of manners of a white girl, she hung up.

Carlisle hadn't moved the entire conversation. "Who was it?"

I knew the hopeless hope in his eyes. I had that look for about a week after my diagnosis. At first you're positive that the MRIs are messed up, that it's all a big mistake. When Carlisle heard the ring tone he must have thought his son was calling him. For a moment for Carlisle the MRI's were wrong. And now I had to be the one to tell him, all over again, that they were right, that his son really was dead.

How the fuck do you do something like that?

I let his eyes glitter with hope for far, far too long, before finally saying, "It was Rosalie."

My favorite word is Zerstört. It's German and it means utterly decimated. Those Nazi fuckers know something about being wiped off the ass-crack of the earth, bombed into oblivion. That's what happened to Carlisle then, there's no English word for the savagery of his grief, Zerstört.

And I, I just watched, afraid that if I touched him I wouldn't be able to hold it together. It was explicit and ugly, his pain. Anyone who glamorizes loss has never been through it.

Deep groans, rusty with longing, screeched through the air. It was as if his organs, not his heart, not his soul, but his body, the most visceral parts of him, were screaming through his throat.

Once I shot a man. I didn't kill him, but I meant to. He crept into my room to steal my laptop—a pimped out Alienware thing, thank you. I thought he was going to rape me so I shot him in the leg. But I was so afraid, that even after he screamed out to stop I fired again, this time towards the shoulder. I was aiming for his heart. I'd never felt so fucking guilty and scared in my life, until now.

Finally, I couldn't look anymore, so I just took him into my arms. I rocked him slowly, like I rocked Kim when she got upset. His tears dampened the fabric of my shirt, before running down underneath it and between my breasts.

And then the strangest thing happened—I found myself weeping too, weeping and kissing him.

It was a temporary solution. I was still dying and his son was still dead. But it felt so fucking good to kiss him, all slow. But not Hollywood, no, our kisses were a little ugly, a little slobbery, a little real.

After some time his tears were spent. Mine weren't. He held me steady, slowly peeled off my jeans, and hefted me onto his lap as I cried. I kept expecting to feel his dick, but I guess he wasn't hard.

His eyes bored into me, blurry from the last of his tears. They didn't move from mine, not even as he traced the outline of my pussy with his hands.

Wordlessly, his hands commanded me up so I was no longer sitting on his lap, but kneeling between his legs, which were crossed Indian style.

His right hand tapped my ass lightly. "Up a little higher," he whispered. No more sobriquets, even our speech was naked now. I stopped crying.

I shifted higher so there was room for his hand to maneuver under me. I didn't look down.

"Now sit," he said. His voice was expository and calm with a deep undercurrent of warmth. I was safe.

I lowered slowly, impaling myself on his hand. One, no two fingers entered into me. When did I get so wet? The friction, oh. My upper lip trembled.

I moved to go upward again, but his other hand, which hadn't moved from beneath my ass, tapped it again. "No."

A forest-fire of blush was beginning to burn underneath my cheeks. I shook my head, my back hair undulating in waves behind me. "W-why?" I usually was the one who controlled things.

"Just listen, don't think." His fingers moved inside of me, not up and down, but twisted a little.

"God!" I cried, tilting my head back.

His hand that wasn't inside me went to my shoulder, pushing me down firmly. "I know how to take care of you."

Another finger then three "Let me take care of you." Insistent.

Fuck. I tightened in preparation for the orgasm, but it wasn't coming; I needed more friction. I mewled in the back of my throat, but the message of the pressure of his hands was clear. Stay put.

He wasn't stronger than me, but for the moment I obeyed. As I stayed still, I realized that his fingers hadn't stopped moving. They were pressing upwards, against my g-spot. The moment I fully realized it, they stopped.

"I see you thinking, my dear." Sing-song, in my right ear. He tucked back a strand of my hair and lightly kissed my neck. "Stop it. No thinking." His fingers wiggled playfully inside me.

"Agh."

"I think we need to get rid of the shirt. I'm tired of seeing Fuck the Police written across those lovely tits of yours."

Tits, he had just said tits. I would have giggled, if I weren't so fucking horny. Needed more friction against my clit, but the pressure from his hand against my shoulders was real now. Fuck, how was he as strong as me? He wasn't letting me up. I couldn't move.

"Shirt off, now, please." His words were punctuated with jagged intakes of breath. Felt his dick; nudged against my stomach.

My hands obeyed, slipping off my shirt. He widened his fingers inside of me; a reward.

"Fuck," I said softly.

His eyes were darker; I didn't know how I had missed it. For all that talk about taking care of me, there was something serrated about his gaze. He needed control, but I also needed to lose it. A storm had come into the blue.

"No more talking."

"Why—"

More than a tap on my ass, he gave me a good whack. "I said no talking."

I almost came. God fucking help me. Me, more of a feminist than Betty Freidan, more muscle mass than Arnold Schwarzenegger. I almost came when he smacked my ass.

His face softened. "Moan, that's all you need to do. You don't have to tell me what to do, Leah. I know what to do." His fingers slowly slipped out of me. "Trust me, I'm a doctor."

Fuck me, I moaned.

"Good girl," he cooed, hands around his dick putting a condom on. Halfway through, he stopped.

"Finish putting the condom on my dick, please Leah. I want to occupy my hands elsewhere."

My hands clawed into the carpet below me. Had to release tension somehow. Shadows played across my skin from the fire. Was dying, fire, me; both.

He tweaked my nipple with his teeth.

I moaned.

He applied a little more pressure, not quite a bite.

I got the message and my hands scrambled to his dick. The moment I began to roll up the condom over his cock, his hands were at my breasts, kneading.

He stopped. "Thank you, Leah." His dick was hard, even through the sheen of the condom, could see his pre-cum.

His mouth darkened into a frown, and it matched his eyes. "What do you do when someone says thank you, Leah? How do you show your appreciation?"

"You're wel—"

That time, a pinch on my ass. "Leah, what are you to do?"

I moaned. Bitch in heat.

"Louder." His teeth found my neck and bit.

I screamed.

The fire flickered from the force of it. He looked into my eyes, surveying the symptoms of my lust. Dilated pupils, wet with sweat, wet with pussy juice, panting.

His hand stroked my hair lightly. "Good girl."

I did feel like a good girl, a fucking amazing girl. Somewhere deep inside of me, I felt like _his _fucking amazing girl.

"My beautiful, wonderful girl. Do you want to cum?" Dark levity in his words.

I moaned for him, only for him. Didn't even think about it, just did it.

"Oh, you're so good," he almost moaned himself. He regained his composure, quickly, and before I could he was at my neck again. "Good, but so tricky, with all that thinking you try to do. Bad girl." The kisses turned to bites.

"Ah!"

"You know what _I _think?"

Moan.

"I think you need to get _fucked_." And then in a motion so quick I couldn't have predicted it, he hoisted me up and onto his dick and plunged me down.

"Fuck me!" I screamed; rules forgotten, almost a little afraid. The fear distilled itself into a blush, into a scream, into another long, primal cry of. "_Fuck_!"

He didn't care either, because then he _was_ fucking me. Each thrust was deeper and brought a new accompanying tango of hands and teeth. Once his hands were in my hair, teeth grazing against the grain of the many, pale hairs on my dark neck, then hands on my ass gripping into my skin, pulling me closer, deeper.

Eventually, it was too much, and I shuddered around his dick. Shattered into a million little pieces. The beginning and the end of the world at the same moment. Time bled out and died as I came, until there was only pleasure.

I was jittery as my orgasm finished, but his dick was still hard. I felt loose around him, and he lay within me, unmoving.

Someone was whimpering quietly. It was me. Aftershocks of my orgasm had vibrated all the way to my lips.

I expected him to cuddle me, but I didn't want to be touched. I was still too sensitive, trembling, a new born star, bright and dangerous.

He didn't though; he just exited me and stood up. I was left there, panting, kneeling on the floor. His hard, thick cock in my face.

I wanted to speak, to say something witty, but his gaze caught mine and I stopped myself. Instead of words I moaned, my vocal cords rubbing against each other to produce a sound all animal.

He patted my head. "Good girl."

No thought. Just pleasure. He knelt down and presented me his fingers. "Will you clean me off please, Leah."

I took his fingers into my mouth, tasting myself. I couldn't even tell you what I tasted like; I was caught in his eyes, in the liquid feeling that had invaded my bones.

"Thank you, my girl." The pleasure in his eyes was electric.

I moaned in appreciation of his praise. The connection between us, I could almost feel every fission of ecstasy he felt.

I wanted more. I lifted off of my knees, my mouth moving towards his cock. His eyes had dulled from incoherence to mirth. His hands—they felt even more powerful—pushed me back down to my knees.

I whimpered, begging now. Quickly, my whimpers turned to moans.

He looked at me; it was patronizing, and somehow that was hot. "Do you want to suck my cock, Leah?"

I whined.

"It will be your reward, all good girls get rewards."

I moved towards his cock, but he took a step back, his glorious, long dick going with him.

"Waiting so patiently, Leah, I'm impressed."

I fidgeted, bringing a hand to my clit. Hurricanes of pleasure swirled in his eyes. I shivered. Oblivion, le petite morte, flickered with in me. God how could I be close to coming again already?

I reached out a hand to grab for his cock. I needed it inside me, mouth, ass, sex—it didn't matter where. I grunted, pawing at his crotch. I had never been this hot before in my life—or this degraded. I needed some serious therapy, and not just the chemo kind.

He laughed.

But that was it! No one laughed at me when I begged—no one. I pushed up against his hand, summoning my full, real strength. I _was_ stronger than him; no sexual games would change that. I felt relief, but also disappointment that the illusion was broken.

His hands flew back, surprised, and he almost lost his balance, but I held him upright, keeping him from falling. He was still fucking smiling.

I moved to kneel again, as if this had all been a big fucking mistake. His smile grew wider at my submission; his dick, if possible, rose even higher and harder. For a second I hesitated, it would be so good to just give in—but it would also be a lie. And I, Leah Clearwater, hated liars.

So on the way down, I dove towards his legs and dug my nails into them deeply. I left skid marks of blood behind me.

He screamed.

His cock hardened.

Then before he could do anything else I dove onto his cock, mouth and tongue working furiously. I pumped up and down. Once, his hand tried to grab my head, but I swatted it away.

He was going to come on my time—not his.

"Oh," he said. "Oh no."

I pushed my face into his crotch, until the tip of his dick touched the back of my throat. I almost threw up but I didn't stop. Nothing could stop me, not even myself.

"Leah, please," he begged.

Oh god, that sounded so good. Since the moment I met him I wanted to hear him say that. I stopped sucking and looked up into his eyes. There was nothing human in them anymore.

He was _mine_, and he was going to come.

I closed my eyes as I was covered with it. Reveled in it like summer rain. Salty and personal, and _him. _

After he came, he fell to his knees spent. I watched him for a long while, just sitting like that.

"Leah," he said my name like a prayer.

"Carlisle." I leaned into his chest, reveling in the feeling of the arms that had just been holding me down.

We hadn't just made love, but hadn't fucked either. It was like, I don't know, like we _worshipped_ each other. Each flip-flop in power, a juggling act of belief in each other, each degradation a trust fall into each other's arms.

I stood there for a moment, looking at him. Shit, I had to go, if only to another room, before I romanticized this any further. I would kill myself if I started plucking the petals off of daisies or some shit. Fuck, I deserved to die from cancer if I got moonstruck over a good fuck and a ferocious blowjob. And here I was talking about Gods and shit. Halle-luh-hoo. Lawdy, lawdy! Where was my obnoxiously large hat and fried green tamaters? Testify to Carlisle's giant cock!

But being honest was more important than not being maudlin, and sex with Carlisle had been _deep_. I wouldn't shortchange it by pretending otherwise.

That didn't change the fact that I needed some alone time, though. Mostly because I was covered with come and didn't quite fancy going to bed looking like a mocha cake attacked by a mad pastry chef with a fetish for semen-frosting. But I couldn't leave yet. I hated to use the word sacred, but I felt like Carlisle had given something, sacrificed his little gene-tadpoles, and I needed to leave something too.

I didn't occur to me that I _had_ left something: time. I would be dead soon, every moment was a sacrifice. "I'm taking a shower," I said.

"It's on the second door to your right, past the bedroom," he called as I turned and left.

—

The water was warm on my skin. It was late outside, so late that even the ambulances had gone back home, and the whoosh of the shower blocked out the littler sounds of the night. I lathered some of his soap over my skin, white pine manly forest. I didn't feel like a Goddess anymore, just like an ice-cream-come cake. I borrowed his razor, shaving my legs. I had a little stubble there.

After I was done, I wrapped myself up in a towel so thick I was worried he hid shit in it—cocaine? Once I was sure my all-important modesty was protected by the fluffy, drug-mule towel, I padded through the doorway and into the Doc's bedroom.

He lay on top of the sheets, no longer naked, but dressed in silk black pajamas. I snorted, not really surprised by the fact that he had to be elegant even now.

He smiled, not a smirk, but a real smile. "Why don't you come to bed, Leah."

Man, he was beautiful. I hadn't really realized it while I was fucking him. Something about the way the light hit his face—oh fuck, lights.

"You did put out the fire right?" I looked nervously to the doors. "'Cause I'm only a volunteer firefighter; I didn't have a chance to get my certificate because one of my sharks got sick. Bree, the shark ya, was like a baby to me and even though she liked to bite people and drink blood…. " I rambled.

He patted the space next to him. "Come on, sit down. We can talk about your shark adventures tomorrow."

Tomorrow. Fuck. To my supreme, as in double-whopper-with extra bacon sized supreme, embarrassment, I began to cry. Again.

I did not want the sun to come out tomorrow, thank you very much. Fuck Annie and her little Ronald McDonald red wig, flea-ridden dog, and vaguely worrisome relationship with Roosevelt.

I would not bet my bottom dollar, I would not even bet a dollar I had _not_ found on my bottom, that things were going to get better. I was going to lose him. I was going to die alone; there was no other way to die. Even if you committed mass suicide holding hands, singing Kumbaya, with shirts that said "togetherness" on them, at the end, when you closed your eyes and faded out into whatever came after, you were alone.

I didn't move any closer to him; I couldn't say what I was about to say in his arms. "I'm scared," I said. "I'm really scared and I've never told anybody that, so don't go spreading that shit around in the water-cooler at the hospital."

He said nothing. He was giving me space to talk, I realized.

Hesitantly, I moved towards the bed. "Do you think it's warm, where we go afterwards? Do you think there's anything at all? Fuck. There probably isn't anything. I wish I believed there was, but I can't—"

My breath hitched. _Inner peace._ The image of the silly fat panda from Kung Fu Panda 2 brought a syrupy laugh to my lips.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, looking at the way my feet dangled limply in front of me. "And you're right, most of the time I don't feel strong. I try so hard to be, because some part of me knows that I'm not."

My voice got quieter, until I couldn't even really hear what I said next. "Because most of the time I feel like I'm already dead and nobody mourns me."

He brought his arms around me, the silk shirt unbuttoned, revealing a thin plane of marble chest, hairless. Did the good doctor manscape? I giggled madly—maybe I would be seeing Alice Brandon again. I hoped the food was good in the crazy house. He scooped me up, and deposited me on the covers next to him.

"You're not alone." He took a deep intake of breath along my neck. "And you smell alive." He licked the underside of my ear. "You taste alive." His hands kneaded my breasts. "You feel alive." He tugged at my shoulders and limply I rolled over to face him.

Then I said something I never had said to a guy before, and never would again, "Thank you."

"Sleep, Leah," he said, his breath whistling dryly from between his teeth as he sighed.

"I don't want to." I pouted. "What if I don't wake up?" I was a little kid, except for this time the monsters under the bed were real—they were inside my body. No jokes, no more platitudes. Knowing you're going to die, not in fifty years, but in fifty days, is fucking terrifying.

"You're here now with me; you're safe. I won't let anything happen to you tonight," he promised, voice so gentle it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

For a long time I just held him, or he just held me. It was hard to tell where he began and I ended, where my fear started and his grief finished.

I fell asleep for an hour or two and then in the middle of the night, or the beginning of morning, woke up again. At first I just thought it was my stupid traitor of a body, not only content to decompose it insisted also upon not letting me sleep.

But then I realized it was Carlisle; he was sleep talking, or rather, sleep singing. Through snores he sang. "Woaah, sweet child," snore, "of mine." He flipped over onto his back, his brow furrowing. "Please, sweet child don't go."

I was about to shake him awake when his hand shot out in front of him. "Please."

I should have felt embarrassed for him, snoring and sleep _singing,_ and _I_ had worried about being sent to the fruitcake bakery. But I just felt sorry for him, and even sorrier for myself.

I would have to leave him tonight.

I told myself that I was leaving him because I just couldn't handle the weird eighties rock deep, paralyzing grief thing, not to mention the more than slightly kinky (Ah-ma-zing!) sex. But that was another joke-lie.

The truth was I knew that I could love a guy like him; I also knew that he could love me. And for the first time I felt scared not about the fact that I was going to lose my sad, sorry excuse for a life, but that I might leave someone behind who would really mourn. That was the shitty thing about life, even if you got what you wanted, there was always a catch.

"Don't go, sweet child." Carlisle whispered, his hand still outstretched, like a corpse reaching from the grave. Except I guess that metaphor was wrong, since I was the walking dead.

If I stayed with him one day, a day not too far away, he might be reaching out for me. I wouldn't be there. I would be dead. This man needed to heal, not another disease.

So, for the first time in my life, I did the noble thing. I gathered up my clothes, slipped them on and slunk down the stairs. Maybe he wouldn't even mind. Maybe he said that take care of you shit to everyone and I was just doing him a favor by leaving.

I tripped on the third step, stubbing my toe through my sneakers. Why would he want a fuck up like me anyway? I mean let's be honest, even before the whole certain death bit I was not a charming Audrey Hepburn type.

It wasn't until I got down to the curb of the street that I realized I had no way to get home. "Flying fucking monkey shit," I cursed.

The air was still damp from the night before and the street glistened with early morning dew. I'd take alleyways over flowers any day, but even I had to admit the streets looked kind of eerie in the predawn. The gray of the sky was the same color as dead brain-matter. At least it was warm, usually mornings were cold.

I was going to call a cab, go back to my little apartment alone. I guess I really was protecting his virtue, or rather his sanity. But feeling noble didn't make me feel strong. My fingers were numb as I tried to dial the number for Jacob's cab company.

Even numbers, my best and sometimes only friends, were failing me now. I wanted so badly to just turn around and run up the stairs, but his words echoed in my mind.

"_I won't let anything happen to you." _

Yeah, Carlisle probably didn't want me to leave. He wanted me, but it wasn't that simple. The problem with Carlisle was he wanted to be noble too, wanted to take care of me. But he couldn't save me, he must have known, he had seen my file.

Mesolthelioma caused from exposure to asbestos. My doctor's theory was I had been exposed to it during my brief stint in London, living in a small ramshackle apartment above a bar and gelato shop. Anyway, the great thing about Mesothelioma is it's pretty impossible to detect; I just thought I had a bad cold for a while and some heartburn. Then one day I got the undeniable pleasure of finding out that I was actually in stage three of the You're Going to Die game and that my whole body was riddled with tumors like nuts in a snickers bar.

Carlisle had read all of this; he knew I was going to die. He had lost everyone important to him in his life; that was no melodrama or overstatement, just simple truth, and still he wanted to protect me, the complete and utter lost cause.

A blur rocketed through the street adjacent to the one I looked out on, followed by the roar of an engine. And soon, there in front of me, looking he-man-beasty, was Jacob Black. His motorcycle purred underneath him like a steam-punk panther. It certainly was better than a Popemobile.

"And here I thought you had switched to actually driving cabs," I teased, although it was a limp dick of a barb.

"Never. It still says Boyz on Motorcycles on the website doesn't it?" He enunciated the z with zeal.

"Yeah. Guess so."

I hadn't told Jacob about the cancer. I hadn't told anyone, except for Carlisle, and I hadn't even really told him—he already knew.

"Damn, Leah, you're looking at that curb like it's your dead baby. Was the one night stand really that bad?" Jacob was the only person on the planet who had less taste than me.

One-night-stand. Fuck, was that what this was? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I was turning into a little emo bitch. I swore if I cried again, I was going to punch myself in the face. I kept my lips closed, knowing if I opened them there was a good chance I would be giving myself a black eye.

"Oh, no." Jacob's puppy dog features bent into worry. "You're not still upset about Sam and Em, are you? Listen, you guys weren't meant for each other. You'll find someone else. I know, I know, that's 'cliché bullshit'." He made air-quotes around '"cliché bullshit," and gave a good try imitating my fierceness, sticking out his jaw and pursing his lips. Did I really look like that?

"But it's true. Hey, I was saving this for later, but since you're in the dollshitdrums, I'm going to say fuck it to Edward and tell you anyway." He gave a little flamboyant hand gesture, one that Edward always made.

"You know Edward's rich uncle, Aro, the one with the villa in Italy? Well, he's invited us to come stay there next year for a month! Hellooo, hot Italian studs!" He put his hands above his eyes, as if he was on a man-hunting safari in the hills of Tuscany.

I could do this, I could not cry. I had faced down Bree, for goodness sakes—hell the cartilage creeper eventually ended up being my friend, with sufficient fish sacrificed. What was one missed vacation in Italy and a handsome man I could never love? Finally, Jacob realized that I was not responding.

"Leah," he said cautiously, as if prodding a big dragon, "Seriously? Are you all right?"

This was it. Five, four, three, two, one, meltdown. Except for instead of crying or collapsing into Jacob's arms, something else happened. There was music.

No. Fucking. Way.

The guitar began first, followed by the scream-vocals.

_If I stare too long I'll probably break down and cry. _

_Woaaah, sweet child of mine._

_Sweet love of mine. _

"Jacob," I growled. "When the fuck did you get that as your ring tone?" All my sadness was replaced by anger. That song was taunting me with everything I couldn't have. And the worst part is it didn't sound annoying, instead it roused within me a feeling of hope.

He shrugged. "No way is that mine, you know how I feel about guys with bigger hair than their penises. False advertising," he grumbled.

The song just kept on going, taunting me with its big, bold, apeggiated melody and thick chords.

"I think it's coming from your phone," said Jacob, completely baffled. "Jesus, you _are _in the doll-shit-droms if you're listening to eighties rock." His eyes widened, and he said with complete seriousness. "Aliens! I knew it, you've been _abducted_." Edward was always going on about Aliens called the Volturi, just another one of his insanities, I mean, charming quirks.

I fished around in my pocket, and indeed, there was my phone vibrating. Across the dinky screen flashed: unknown number. I flipped open the phone.

"Hello," I said viciously.

"Come back to bed." It was him.

Fuck! How was I supposed to leave him if I had to talk to him again? I almost moved to end the call.

"You reprogrammed my phone," I said instead.

"I thought you might find it funny," he said, but he didn't sound like he was making a joke. "You need a nicer phone, one with password protection on it. We'll discuss the state of your electronics, when you _come back to bed_." He was all cavalier again, the man from the art gallery, not the taxi cab.

"I can't." I didn't have any anger for him. I had felt like a knight in shiny, albeit too big armor, but now I just felt lame. I couldn't win. Either I left him and hurt his feelings or I stayed with him and broke his heart.

Jacob's eyes were wide as he mouthed "Who is it?" He always did have a good nose for gossip, like a bloodhound for unplanned pregnancies and cheaters. I waved him away and pressed the phone closer to my ear, walking towards a nearby street lamp.

Carlisle was silent, so I elaborated. "I'm just going to die, just like everybody else."

The universe is one hundred and fifty billion light years in diameter; the silence between his phone and mine felt larger.

Finally, surprisingly casually, he said, "I know."

"I'm just going to hurt you, when I go."

The only thing worse than him agreeing with me would have been if he had disagreed, if he had said that there was absolutely no danger of me hurting him, because he was in no danger of really caring about me.

"You will. I'm sure it will hurt like a bitch when you die. I'm sure I will have nightmares like the one you heard last night, the one that made you run away." He sounded so calm and in control, even as he spoke about pain and his own, out of control weakness. Not as if this was no big deal, but as if it was something he understood, something he had made peace with.

Peace. My heart and mind didn't know the meaning of the word. I was the fucking middle-east with all the conflict that happened in me. Kung Fu panda couldn't meditate away all the shit that went through my brain.

But I saw the glimmer of it there, with him. My life was short, tumultuous and probably meaningless. But when I was with him it didn't feel that way.

"I'm not going to let myself be ruled by the fear of loss. I hate to get philosophical this early in the morning, by the by you could have picked a better time to make your noble escape." Jesus, sometimes it was like that fucker could read my mind.

He was back to Zen-Master Obi-won. "Do you know how to beat death, Leah?"

"How?" I asked, surly as a third-grader held afterschool past three o clock.

"You love. You love even though you know it's going to hurt when you lose them. You love in the face of tragedy. You love through the nightmares, the embarrassing cab-break downs, the wondering if it's warm on the other side. I'm sure you believe you're noble by running away and letting me lead the walled up existence you've subjected yourself to since your diagnosis, but you're not noble, you're afraid. So, as you would say, grow some fucking balls and return to bed. I've made English muffins."

He hung up before I could respond.

I looked at Jacob standing a few feet away, lounging against the motorcycle, and then I looked at my phone.

"Fuck nobility, Jacob," I said, jogging over to him.

"Yeah, fuck all those knights in shining armor at Medieval Times. Way overpriced." He cocked his head. "Now are you going to tell me what's up, Leah?" He did look seriously worried, but something had changed within me and I didn't have time to explain.

"Don't wait up for me," I yelled, turning around and running back towards the condo. "I'm growing balls and getting English Muffins."

"The Volturi," he muttered darkly, "Edward, I'm sorry I ever doubted you."

I only had to knock once before the door opened. My breath caught a little in my throat. It was one thing to say shit like love and conquering death on the phone, there was distance there. Anything said on the phone is said in an alternative universe, one where you're brave.

"Hey," I said. "I'm back."

He didn't look brave now though. His blonde hair was frazzled into a cloud of platinum; his blue eyes were muddy with sleep, but wide.

"Some part of me didn't think you'd come," he said quietly.

I bit my lip. "Yeah," I said lamely. "Usually, I fight _with_ people, not _for_ them."

He reached from beyond the threshold grabbing my hand and pulling me in. I felt like we were in slow motion, not the skipping across the field of fucking daisies kind though. No, it was like I had jumped off something really high in a dream, where ten seconds is turned into ten years.

Eventually, I knew I'd hit the pavement. Splat, cartoon style, no getting up. Dead as a fucking doorknob.

"What are you thinking about?" He brought me closer to his arms, and began rocking us back and forth, slow dancing without music. Then he began humming the bridge of that song.

"Nothing."

"Liar, liar," he chanted, in between notes.

He dipped me, and things sped up a little. A giggle squeaked out of me, and by the time had brought me vertical again my ruddy complexion was flushed from all the blood to my head.

He touched his nose to mine. "Hey," he said. He pressed a little Eskimo kiss to my nose.

A different kind of heat suffused through my chest. Not sexual, but something else.

Time sped up. Now I really was falling, and fast. My breath hitched my chest. The tumors had started in my lungs, and now were located throughout my entire body, like thousands of tiny water balloons. Pop.

I held onto his shoulder for a second, waiting the pain out. I closed my eyes.

I opened them again, had the world ended. No, everything was still there.

"Do you need me to call the hospital?"

"N-no," I said. "I'm fucking fine." I wasn't. It hurt like a bitch. "J-just hold me, okay?"

I closed my eyes again, the pain in my chest lessened but the feeling didn't. He brought me closer to his chest, and suddenly I wasn't falling anymore.

I tilted my chin up into his eyes. There all around me was the world, and I was dying—yes, but maybe that was the most beautiful fucking way to see it. Maybe, I wasn't falling to my death, but hang gliding, seeing everything beautiful about the world all at once.

And there he was, my beautiful doctor, holding my hand as I plummeted towards the earth

-The End.-

****THIS IS A CONTEST ENTRY. PLEASE READ THE ENTRIES AND VOTE FOR YOUR FAVORITE STORIES.****


End file.
